The Daoist Boy

The old man with snow-white hair and beard, nicknamed "Murder Ghost" in his youth, felt his chest heaving like a bellows. After delivering those two fierce strikes, he felt his arms tremble faintly, his heart pounding in his chest as though it were about to leap out.

But his body was filled with blood that had begun to boil once more. He experienced again that wanton, destructive exhilaration.

He recalled a time long, long ago, when he had beheaded men amid torrential rain. Scalding blood had sprayed across his face, just like now. The blood made his skin draw tight, and its faintly sweet stench kept him alert.

He also recalled how, over the past several decades, he, alone in the world, had watched Eldest Young Master grow up bit by bit, take a wife, have children, and become capable of standing on his own. He was crippled and a household servant, but he had come to think of Eldest Young Master as his own son.

Now, he had nothing left.

He felt hollowed out. But that emptiness was quickly filled by something else... the pent-up savagery and brutality born of certain emotions erupted like a hidden volcano.

Meng E, the Murder Ghost, straightened and closed his eyes. A deep, drawn-out wheezing came from his chest. A quarter-hour later, he abruptly opened his eyes and let out a muffled groan. His joints crackled and popped all over his body. As he straightened his back, the old man seemed to grow several feet taller in an instant. The tyrannical power of the Seven Kills Blade, driven by him to its peak, was madly burning away his life—this domineering technique, which he had obtained by chance in his youth and used to make his name, had now become both deadly poison and raging fire.

He slowly exhaled.

White mist shot forth like a long dragon of sharp arrows, piercing the night sky.

Three breaths later, the old man easily lifted the thirteen-pound heavy-backed ringed saber and headed toward the western courtyard. After walking a few steps, he saw a maid approaching him.

The young maid had been looking after Qiao Jiaxin. But Qiao Jiaxin had unexpectedly neither made a fuss nor caused trouble that night, and the two of them had grown sleepy and hungry. So she had headed for the kitchen to find something to eat.

But then, in the darkness, she heard a clattering sound and vaguely saw the old man's snowy hair and beard lit by moonlight. Sleepy and exhausted, the little maid snorted inwardly. As she hurried on, she muttered, "Old thing, you scared the wits out of me in the middle of the night."

Three more steps brought her close enough to see the old man clearly.

She saw the blood on his face.

The maid stopped instinctively. After thinking for a moment, she was about to cry out.

But the old man had already reached her side. He neither stopped nor looked at her.

He merely raised his hand. The blade rose, the head fell. He continued onward.

The scent of blood spread through the spring night breeze, mingling with the aromas of wine, meat, and powder. Meng E reached the gate of the western courtyard and pushed it open. Lewd banter, moans, and laughter crashed over him again, but they could no longer bring him down.

Filled with urgent desire, he limped toward the pavilion. The night wind rose. The candlelight within the pavilion flickered unsteadily. The tip of his blade dragged across the ground, metal scraping stone with a piercing shriek—and the three people finally turned around.

Even the dullest person could sense that something was wrong with the old man. In that instant, Qiao Wangshi finally recalled something Qiao Duanhong had once mentioned in passing.

"...Master Meng has been looking older and older these past few years. But when he was young, he didn't have a good temper."

"...They called him Murder Ghost. Don't look at Master Meng as he is now... He only came to the escort agency because he had nowhere else to go..."

"You've never seen him fight, have you? He was truly skilled."

An inexplicable terror immediately rose in her heart. She stared fixedly at the blood on his face, lifted a hand to point at him, and shrieked in disbelief, "M-Murder... You killed someone?! You killed someone?!"

"Yes. This old man... killed someone." The white-haired old man spoke in that strange tone, his voice hoarse.

That was how he had spoken in his youth.

"And I haven't killed enough." He took two steps forward. He moved slowly, but not to deliberately create pressure or toy with them like a cat with mice. It was because the tyrannical power of the Seven Kills Blade was about to drain away all his vitality.

"Eldest Young Master left just now. You two are going to keep him company." At last, he stepped onto the stairs and saw the terrified faces of the three people clearly.

Qiao Jiaming blinked his drunken, bleary eyes for quite some time before realizing that the old man holding the saber was only three steps away from him. He shuddered in fright, shoved Qiao Liushi away as though shocked by lightning, and tried to flee in a blind panic.

"You think you can get away?!" the old man shouted lowly, swinging his blade at him. The saber tore through the air, and the iron rings on its back clattered wildly.

The blade first sliced through the white gauze curtain between them, then swept across Qiao Liushi's arm, tearing open a long wound. Then... its momentum suddenly slowed. Like a swimming dragon abruptly stripped of its divine powers, it folded heavily downward and struck the stone table.

The crash of shattered cups, plates, and bowls mixed with the frantic sounds of the three fleeing in panic. Qiao Liushi screamed loudly, while Qiao Jiaming screamed even louder. But after the three of them howled for a while, they suddenly realized... the old man had gone silent.

Then they heard the heavy saber hit the ground with a clang.

When they turned back again, their souls still trembling, they discovered that the old man had fallen to the ground. His forehead had first struck the edge of the table, then the stone bench, before he fell. The blood he spat from his mouth and the blood flowing from his forehead dyed his hair and beard red. He looked as though he were dead.

Qiao Jiaming stood stunned for a long while before shoving aside Qiao Liushi, who was crying and yelling that she was going to die. He poked Meng E with the tip of his shoe. Only when he saw no reaction, and determined that the old man was not feigning it, did he walk over and bend down to check his breathing.

Then he jerked his hand back and gritted his teeth. "This old bastard! He's still not dead! He's turned against us! Killing people!"

As he spoke, he used his drunken courage to reach for the saber on the ground. But his body had been drained by wine and women, he had drunk too much besides, and the saber was heavy. When he tried to lift it, he could not.

Then he heard Qiao Wangshi, clinging to a redwood pillar of the pavilion, say in a trembling voice, "Enough, enough. Leave him alive for now. Tie him up and send him to the Prefect. Eldest Young Master is dead... Meng E is just right. A household servant colluding with bandits from outside—besides, I heard he was a thief in his youth. Prefect Li... wasn't he looking for a pretext? Well, now one has fallen into his lap."

"A servant colluding with outside bandits? Huh?" Qiao Jiaming widened his eyes. "Who would believe that?"

"It is precisely because it is hard to believe that people will think it is true. Fool." Qiao Wangshi's face darkened as she looked at Qiao Jiaming, then at the sobbing Qiao Liushi. "Besides, who was this old thing close to on ordinary days? Have you forgotten?"

"Huh?" Qiao Jiaming blinked.

"Ah." Qiao Wangshi sighed. "That Liu Laodao. Didn't those two often drink together? Don't you want the Dragon King Temple on Back Street? Didn't Prefect Li say the other day that he lacked a pretext to make his move? Now we have one!"

Only then did Qiao Jiaming slap his palm, completely forgetting his earlier fright and becoming smug again under the effects of the alcohol. After gloating for a while, he gritted his teeth and said, "Good, good, good. I was just thinking about that. Hmph. I never meant to make things difficult for that old man. But who told that brat—hm? What was that brat called again?"

"Who cares what he's called? I haven't even laid a finger on Sister Jiaxin, but he—hmph? He even hit me that day? Just looking at that slick, powdered face of his, you can tell he's no good. Liu Laodao's disciple? Heh, I know all about those filthy things! What Daoist boy? Boy? Aren't they just for playing with? Those people who claim to cultivate immortality—hmph, which one of them doesn't keep a few tender-skinned little rabbits? What was it called again? It was... hm... back, back..."

Qiao Wangshi frowned slightly, apparently disliking what he was saying. "You must not say such things when you stand in court later. Watch your mouth. This time, Prefect Li only took an interest in the Dragon King Temple because he was short of silver. Under normal circumstances, what would a Prefect, with only a few thousand taels of income a year, care about provoking such foul trouble over a single residence?"

"What you should say is not anything about Daoist boys. You should say that every person of the Qiao Escort Agency was dead, yet an old Daoist accompanying the escort and a young boy had returned unscathed. Then, after returning, the household servant friendly with that old Daoist killed the head of the Household and tried to kill the mistress as well. Once Lord Prefect interrogates them carefully, he will discover that Liu Laodao and Meng E had been tempted by wealth and colluded with outside bandits. Remember it all clearly. Do not stand there knowing nothing when questioned!"

Qiao Jiaming waved his hand impatiently. "Heh, women always think too much. That Liu Laodao and that brat are both ordinary commoners. If the Prefect wants to handle a case, he only needs to find a pretext to seize them and give them fifty intimidating strokes. Even a man forged from iron will confess—why are you babbling so much..."

Li Yunxin did not learn of all that, which happened in a residence only one street away, until seven days later.

When Liu Laodao woke the next day, he said in a daze that he had seen a ghost the previous night, though he feared he had merely been drunk and mistaken things in the darkness. Li Yunxin simply told him that was indeed the case—he had gone outside and only seen Liu Laodao spin around in place a few times before passing out.

That was better than explaining even more to him.

Then came the painful process of trying to break through his restriction every day. There were a few more worshippers on the second day, then fewer and fewer on the third. It was ultimately an inconspicuous little temple. The neighboring villagers learned of it and came, but the news could not spread quickly. It would probably take some time before word that "the Dragon King Temple in the city has displayed true divine power" gradually reached more ears.

After all, this was not the information-exploding era from his former life. Even within Weicheng, it would not have been strange for people in one part of the city to learn of something that happened elsewhere only a year later.

But this was also good for Li Yunxin. The temple's incense offerings gradually grew more prosperous, and he could draw them in like a thin stream flowing ever onward. That let him slowly adapt and grow accustomed to it, rather than making himself feel as though he were about to explode.

He learned to use the tiny amount of spiritual power he could already mobilize to wrap the Incense and Fire Prayer Power and draw it into his "Snow Mountain." Using that Votive Power to bore hole after hole into the Snow Mountain, he felt the spiritual energy available to him increase day by day.

Three days later, he could already walk around with a normal expression while enduring the pain. Only his steps were slower and his complexion paler. Some worshippers occasionally saw Li Yunxin. While marveling at when Liu Laodao had acquired such a young disciple, they were also struck by his handsome appearance. Some women privately said that Liu Laodao had neither sons nor daughters, so this young Daoist would probably inherit his mantle in the future. He looked decent, owned a piece of property, and the temple had income—he would make a fine match.

It was only that the young Daoist's complexion did not look good, and they wondered whether he would be plagued by illness and misfortune in the future.

Li Yunxin looked somewhat older than his actual age. Thus, two days later, a matchmaker truly came calling—he naturally declined with amusement.

That was because he had often been showing his face lately.

Back when he stayed in the mountain village, all he saw were villagers. Now that he had come to Weicheng—the "Magic City" of this world—he naturally wanted to see how people here lived and what customs they had. In his previous life, he had been something of a psychologist. He had always enjoyed observing people, and that had not changed now.

So in the daytime, he played the role of Liu Laodao's disciple, sweeping the courtyard and tending the incense and candles. He exchanged a word or two with familiar faces and nodded to them. Then he would carry a stool to a corner of the front courtyard and sit there, staring blankly at the worshippers coming and going—others thought he was daydreaming, but he was actually striking against his restriction while pondering...

How to deal with Ninth Young Master, Bai Yunxin, and whatever crises might exist. Watching more people at such times always gave him some good ideas.

People truly were fascinating creatures.

He simply had not expected that before those great crises arrived, another troublesome matter would come knocking first.

The matter of the Qiao Household.

The seventh morning after he had seen Qiao Jiaxin's Faceless Ghost soul.

There were no longer as many people as in the previous days. Every morning, Miss Yin, who sold tofu along the street, would probably come to burn incense and make a wish. "Miss Yin" was how Li Yunxin addressed her—the girl would cast him a smiling, bashful sidelong glance and say, "Oh, just call me Yin Xueruo."

To be fair, Miss Yin truly was not bad. Perhaps because her name contained the character for snow, she was extremely fair. Pale blue veins could be seen beneath her neck, and the shadows cast by her thick lashes upon her snowy cheeks in the sunlight looked like butterfly wings. She had a slender, petite figure. Li Yunxin could not see her legs through her cloth skirt, but merely judging from her bearing, in his era she would probably have been the kind of little beauty people chased after, spoiled, and held in the palms of their hands.

Fair, beautiful, and, on this street, reasonably wealthy.

One incense offering cost one-tenth of a tael of silver. Converted into the currency of his era, that was two hundred yuan. He thought it over—a girl tossing out two hundred yuan every morning, six thousand yuan a month, without even blinking... what level of fair, rich beauty did that make her?

Yet such a girl, in novels and tales, would only be cast as a "Tofu Beauty"—the most unremarkable ordinary person in the story. Whenever he thought of this, he found it increasingly amusing. Seeing things through his own eyes and seeing them through others' eyes truly were different.

That morning, after Miss Yin had offered incense as usual and swayed over to Li Yunxin to say, "Morning, little Daoist," Liu Laodao entered through the front gate with his brows deeply furrowed.

When he looked up and saw Li Yunxin, his face fell. Then, like a child asking for candy while fearing an adult's refusal, he walked up to Li Yunxin. "Brother Xin, something happened..."